


What's left Behind

by destielpasta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angelic Grace, Angst, Episode: s09e09 Holy Terror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, coda fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 20:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>9.09 coda. Castiel has grace back, and he returns to dean with an old pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's left Behind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mtothedestiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/gifts).



Castiel rests his head on the dirty Plexiglas of the phone booth, his heart still and quiet in his chest. He never realized how loud the constant thumping had been before. Perhaps he should have spent more time listening.

His new grace burns like acid. It ‘s ill-fitting and too large for him, stretching under his skin and threatening to break through his chest and blow out his kneecaps. The pain is dull, more a memory of what pain  _should_  feel like.

Despite the sensation, his body is quiet. He focuses on the other sounds. A grasshopper rubs its spiny legs together behind the gas station, two sisters bicker in a car two miles away, the wind whistles through trees in a forest he can’t see. The world stretches out before him again. He wishes for wings.

Instead, he sets off down the road, kicking up dust and watching it coat his shoes and cling to the hems of his pants. Everything seems sharper, crisper through the filter of the borrowed grace. His suit has a light pinstripe to it, almost invisible to the naked eye but standing out bright and piercing with his sharper vision. He doesn't like it. He wouldn't have purchased it if he had known.

_You would’ve stopped me._

The thought is not his own, but it doesn’t read like an intrusion either. He stops. A red pick-up swerves past him, the driver yelling incoherencies his way. Had the driver yelled before too? No, the voice had been different. Softer and darker. Someone could have whispered it against the exposed skin of his chest, the sound travelling upward until it reached his ears. The voice continued to echo, leaving a new burning trail on his skin.

Castiel hasn't heard a prayer in months. Not that he had heard many in his lifetime. Of course he heard general prayers sent to the Seraphim, and occasionally someone sought the help of the Angel of Thursday, but those voices had been generic, formal in their reciting as if reporting to an upper manager rather than a mystical being. Stiff, and nothing like the familiar utterance he had just heard.

This was a voice that could crack him open.

He picks up one foot to continue walking. The burn spreads to his feet. The air is cool, but Castiel feels fire inside his shoes, lapping at his ankles. He reaches down, undoing the laces and ripping them off. They hang limp in his hands, his socked feet connecting with the rocks and dirt. He walks on, ignoring the slight pinpricks that would have drawn blood just a few hours ago.

_Dead. You could’ve cured him. Where the hell could you even be?_

Dean’s prayers follow him down the road into the next town. They follow him into the bus station while he purchases a ticket, and while his face is pressed against the cool glass window of the Greyhound. They burn his lips and fester under his fingernails.

* * *

 

Much quicker than he had planned, he finds himself outside of their home.

There’s a stench in the air; ash, dust, gasoline, and something unspeakably horrible. Sloppy footprints lead to and from the door to the Men of Letters Headquarters. Cas follows them, carefully covering his own tracks behind him.

The footprints lead to a patch of freshly dug earth on the edge of the forest, dust and ash mingling with the torn up grass. Cold winter shade covers the plot, but in the spring there might be flowers. A rough-hewn cross pierces the dirt, words carved messy in the wood.

Kevin Tran, Prophet of the Lord.

“It was Ezekiel.”

Without his grace, Castiel would have jumped and grappled for a knife, but the voice is familiar. The rising burn in his chest gives it away.

Dean steps up beside him. “Or whoever he is. The angel inside Sam.”

Cas shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. “I’m sorry, Dean. I wish I could have gotten here sooner.”

Dean shrugs. “I guess you can’t—I mean, can you?”

“I can’t.”

Dean nods, scratching at the hairs at the back of his neck. “Ok. Never hurts to ask, right?”

Dean's smile is a sham, a gruesome crack in his face. Castiel turns away, squatting down to lay his hand on the dirt, feeling for whatever consciousness is left of the young prophet. He searches for anything that will allow him to say goodbye.

“Gave him a hunter’s funeral,” Dean continued, “Figured it was only fair.”

Castiel searches for the words. Should he say that Dean did his best? That he was good to Kevin when he was alive? That Kevin was in a better place now?

He feels a shiver at the thought, or at least a suggestion of one. Darkness quickly approaches, and the cold laps at the exposed skin of his wrists and neck, trying to chill him against the ethereal burn in his chest.

He lets himself be distracted by a bruise on Dean’s face. It’s purple and yellowing at the edges, and the skin splits next to it. Dryness. He straightens up and tries to organize the grace under his fingertips.

Dean looks confused when Castiel lays a palm over his cheek, a flash of fear entering his eyes. For a moment, Castiel wonders if this grace will turn on him, or if he will overshoot from lack of practice, but it never happens. Dean’s bruise fades away, his eye receding to its natural size. Dean sighs, relief in the sound.

“Forgot about that.” Dean shivers, wrapping his coat around himself. “Come on, I’ll get you some clean clothes.”

* * *

 

Dean fills him in while rummaging through drawers and closets. About the angel who was tricking him all along, the angel who murdered Kevin in front of him and made off with the tablets and Sam’s body. His voice is flat, his speech peppered with "I don't knows" and "whatevers" and "I should have seen it coming."

Dean tosses him jeans and undershirts and boxers, averting his eyes while Cas shucks off the blood-stained suit. The clothes are soft and warm, having given years of service to the cause of keeping Dean Winchester warm. Castiel thinks that he likes clothes with history. He misses the clothes he had picked out for himself from the Church charity bin, mourns the blue vest he had turned in to Nora with a wave and smile.

Dean makes them food and Cas eats it, the sandwich dropping into his empty stomach without a hint of the old satisfaction. He thinks it might be ham. And mustard. He chews mechanically.

Midway through their meal Dean throws his own down, his face falling into his hands. “You don’t need to eat anymore,” he says, voice muffled and scratchy.

Cas takes another bite, gently nudging Dean’s own plate to make him look up. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

There are other words behind Dean’s lips. They manifest in twitching fingers and hard swallows, but he doesn’t say them. There had been moments when Dean’s lips had been confusing to him, something that he might have leaned toward, but now there was only the burn. He fights to keep his vision straight.

Dean doesn’t eat any more. He tosses both their sandwiches in the garbage and the dishes into the sink and sits back down, tracing his finger against the lip of his beer bottle.

“I know that I’m—“ Dean begins, “I know that I should be revving to go, jumping in the car to look for Sam.” He picks at the bottle label. “But I’m just so tired, Cas.”

Castiel swallows the burn in his throat, pressing it deep inside of him for another day. He slides off the stool and takes Dean’s elbow in his hand. Dean looks surprised, or at least like he should be, but leans into the touch. Cas pulls him down the hallway to his bedroom.

They stop outside Dean’s door. “Shit, man, I forgot to get you some sheets—there’s a room down the hall—“ Realization enters his eyes again. “I mean, if you just want to rest. I know you can’t sleep anymore.”

“I can find my way, Dean. Go to sleep.” Cas’s fingers itch to give Dean a dreamless sleep, but his grace is unstable. He would have to manage.

Dean nods, his eyes lighting with understanding. “Ok. ‘Night, Cas.”

Cas lets his face smile.

* * *

 

With Dean’s absence, the burn worsens.

It sits low in his sternum and pricks at his feet. He takes of his shoes and socks. He takes off his outer shirt. He runs cool water from the tap over his wrists. The burn persists. 

This grace doesn’t respond to human remedies and moves to his arms and the back of his neck. Standing up is painful. Lying down is worse. He settles in the kitchen, hunched over the counter. He counts the grains in the tile grout.

“Cas?”

He looks up to see Dean in the doorway; his hair is flattened on one side and he wears a soft pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt with a stretched out collar.

Impossibly, beautifully soft.

Dean speaks then, but the burn moves to Cas’s ears, and Dean’s words are only a ringing that settles in his bones. Some words stick out.  _Missed. Need. Sam. You. Gone. Want. Can I._  

Tears roll down Dean’s face and stain his shirt, and Cas wishes he could hear him. He longs to stop the pain, but his grace roots him in place.

The grace keeps him from meeting Dean halfway.

It’s an immovable kiss. Dean’s lips press against his, the miniscule friction sending dry heat to Castiel’s chest. He clenches his hands at his sides but wills them to move, to grab at the hunter’s sleeves and shoulders and touch his face and trace his fingers over every inch of skin. His body curls his hands into fists instead.

Dean pulls away, a thick swallow sounding from his throat and echoing in Castiel’s ears. “Cas?” he asks.

It’s more than his name, it’s a question. Hundreds of questions that a man like Dean would never ask, and they rush into Cas’s mind as if Dean was praying, as if Dean had gotten used to praying to a Castiel that couldn’t hear him. 

_Do you feel this? Am I crazy? Do you want me to stop? Have I ruined everything?_

Dean starts to turn away, nodding and swallowing and clenching his jaw in that way Cas could do without for a thousand years. The prayers fade. Castiel’s fingernails cut into his own palms, blood threatening to bubble to the surface. The grace burns him from the inside. It roots his feet to the floor.

It doesn’t yet have his voice.

“Dean.”

Dean turns around, waiting. He shoves his hands deep enough in his pockets to make his shoulder tense up, elbows locking. Cas coughs, the bitterness coating the inside of his mouth. The grace sits just inside his skin, threatening to burst through and incinerate them both. His own voice seems far away. Shaky.

“You have to come to me.”

Dean’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “What?”

“It’s the grace. I forgot how—I think I’m coming apart.” His own hand moves to his hair, grasping and pulling just enough to prick.

Dean steps toward him again. “What do you need me to do?”

 _You can fight this, Cas_.

It’s an old prayer, one spoken by the man on his knees in a crypt. More importantly, it’s faith.

“I need you to touch me, again,” Castiel stutters, feeling the ghost of an embarrassed flush on his neck. He reaches for the feeling, grasping at the humanity of it.

Dean eyes flash, but he doesn’t hesitate, reaching for his waist first, running his hands up and down Castiel’s rib cage. Flutters of new heat battle with the old; grace and humanity, angel and human.

Dean searches for Castiel’s eyes, blown out pupils reflecting the soft gas lamps of the kitchen. “Better?” he whispers. Cas nods, but needs more. His hands are rigid and unmoving at his sides. Reaching out with his eyes will have to do.

Luckily Dean doesn’t need any more words. He steps closer to seal his lips to Cas’s mouth once again.

Castiel inhales, his lungs starving for the utterly useless air. Dean’s mouth burns, sending shots of pain down his legs and rooting him to the floor again. This isn’t lust. This is a presence, a prayer. It echoes through him, something lighter than air and Cas gasps as it forms into words again.

_I’m here. I want you here, Cas, no matter what._

It was as if Dean was miles away, praying to him from the privacy of his own bedroom. Castiel’s lips part with an exhale, a hot sob escaping into Dean’s open mouth. His hands release at his sides and spring forward to grab at his friend, finding purchase in the soft roughness of his shirt.

_I know you. I’ve let you down. Stay. I got you._

The burning grace subsides in waves, still pulsing in his chest but decreasing urgency as arms wrap around Castiel. He presses forward, moving their bodies the short distance to the wall to press Dean into the wood, clinging to soft sighs and softer words spoken out loud. He swallows down every gasp, every hitch of breath and runs his fingertips across Dean’s chest, tracing and willing this body to just feel anything.

He wills his heart to beat. It doesn’t.

“Cas.”

Castiel’s hand flattens over the other man’s sternum, a steady pulse beneath his palm. Dean’s heartbeat is louder in his ears than his own ever was, in time with their ragged breaths and the push of their hands.

“Is this what it always felt like?” Dean asks, his mouth open and panting over the skin of Castiel’s neck.

“Yes,” Castiel says, “I forgot- I forgot how much it hurts.”  _I forgot how much it hurts for angels to love._

His prayers won’t reach Dean, but still the other man holds him tighter, winding his arms around him until they could loop around twice. Dean holds Castiel together, pressing his pieces back together until they peel apart again and it’s time to start fresh. Only then does Castiel feel relief. 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a Christmas gift for my best friend, and if you're wondering why I would give someone angst for Christmas, don't worry, she totally gets it. Thank you for reading!


End file.
